


Fur

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [32]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Life in Ered Luin, M/M, Pre-The Hobbit, Wargs, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-30 22:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11473227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: It's wintertime in the Blue Mountains, and food is still scarce. Hunting is less an occupation and more of a necessity when there are hungry mouths to feed, but it is not without its dangers.Sometimes, the danger is not so much what happens when you meet your foe as what comes after...The story of a Scar.





	1. Chapter 1

Dwalin looked at the sky, scowling at the snow-heavy clouds far above him.

“It’ll snow soon,” Víli said, from where he was crouched, checking that his snare was placed correctly. They still had another five to go, but the two rabbits already strapped to Dwalin’s pack would be a welcome addition to their winter stores. He rumbled something not particularly polite aimed at whoever controlled the weather, but Víli simply smiled.

Sometimes, it vexed Dwalin no end how Víli was always so positive… but then he remembered that they both lived in a household of Royal Durins and felt quietly grateful that Dís’s One was not another dramatic romantic prone to violent outbursts – like Dís herself – or spending hours upon hours brooding on things he couldn’t change – like Thorin. Thorin had been meant to come along today, but he’d begged off in favour of a council meeting so Dwalin had been volunteered to help Víli. By which he meant Dís had made puppy eyes at him while Thorin was looking and that was why Dwalin found himself wandering the slopes with Víli. Thorin – having no older siblings on whom to practice using puppy eyes – was almost incapable of denying Dís when she used hers. On the whole, Dwalin thought, it was a good thing that Dís rarely used her powers for more nefarious agendas, really. He didn’t mind walking in the cold, and he was reasonably fond of Víli – aside from the fact that he was sleeping with Dwalin’s little sister, but both he and Thorin had decided never to think about that fact… _ever._ Not just because Dís would have killed anyone trying to stop her marrying her One, but also because there was not enough alcohol in the whole of Middle-Earth to make the thought palatable to her protective older brothers. The wee pebble was adorable, though, Dwalin had to admit.

Víli, miner and occasional hunter, was decent company, if a bit fond of stating the obvious, but then again, not every Dwarf had the misfortune of being raised by Lord Fundin, with a brother like Balin, who had drilled it into his head to think first and speak later.

The next two traps were empty too, and Dwalin could tell that they’d have been better off turning back instead of keeping on, but the thought of leaving possible food to the scavengers did not sit well with either of them. They were not so poor as when they had first settled in Ered Luin, but not so prosperous as to turn away fresh meat, so Víli and Dwalin trudged on in spite of the knowledge that the snow would almost certainly begin to fall before they reached the last snare.

“At least the cold’ll keep the meat from spoiling,” Víli remarked philosophically when they found a third rabbit trapped in his second-to-last snare. Dwalin nodded a grunt in his direction. He was beginning to dream of his warm seat by the fire, a cup of Frís’s special tea in his hand while he waited for the rabbit stew Dís would certainly prepare for two cold hunters, when the first snowflake landed on his nose.

Within ten minutes, the world was covered in a swiftly growing layer of white, and only Víli’s keen knowledge of the area allowed them to reach the last snare. A fox had been caught in it, but Dwalin hardly cared, killing it with a quick blow of the axe and tying the carcass to his collection. The pelt would make a nice gift for Frís, who had needed new winter gloves for the past two years. Not much meat on a fox, to be sure, but the fur was nice and warm.

 

* * *

 

“Think the lads’ll make it back for supper, or should we leave theirs on the stove to keep warm?” Frís asked, startling Dís who had been staring out the window where the first flakes of snow had started to fall.

“It looks like a blizzard to me, Amad,” she sighed. “Hopefully they’re almost here or at least in a place where they can find shelter.”

“Dwalin not back yet?” Thorin echoed his amad’s question as he walked in the door, trailing grey-haired Balin, who was calmly reading a long scroll – probably the result of the day’s meetings, Dís thought with a sigh. The settlement was not rich, though at least they didn’t starve every winter anymore, but the mines were failing and Thorin had been approached about the possibility of opening a new mine further away.

“Nay, son,” Frís replied, tickling baby Fíli until he gave her a gummy smile. Dís smiled to see it. Ruffling Fíli’s still-sparse hair with a work-roughened hand, Thorin pecked his sister’s cheek in greeting. “But supper is almost ready.”

The announcement was greeted with smiles, and Dís collected her pebble from Frís’s secure hold, knowing that they were minutes away from wailing hunger. With Fíli was suckling for his own supper, Thorin and Balin got the table set, while Frís walked round the house ensuring that all the shutters where closed and a few reinforced with wads of fabric to keep the cold out. Dís settled herself in the most comfortable chair by the fire, accepting a cup of tea from Balin with a wordless smile of thanks.

 

 

* * *

 

Trudging through the snow was one thing; Dwalin had had worse. The darkness was no problem either, being a Dwarf with terrific Darksight, but the sudden howls they heard in the distance had him gripping his axe tightly. Víli, too, looked worried. The strong winds threw off their sound perception, sometimes making the howling sound close, sometimes far off. Wolves would rarely attack Dwarrow so early in the winter, but they had heard gossip from further north of a pack with a taste for Dwarf-flesh. Dwalin hadn’t given the rumour much credence… until now.

Dwalin shivered. The howls had changed, he could tell. Víli had paled beneath is blonde beard; he too knew the sound of a pack out hunting.

“We won’t reach home before they’re on us,” Víli admitted quietly. Dwalin nodded grimly.

“We need somewhere to stand properly, where they can’t circle us,” he snapped, feeling a twinge of guilty satisfaction at the way Víli jumped. Even after twenty years of knowing each other, Dwalin’s ‘I am in command and you will listen’-voice still startled the miner, who tended to forget that Dwalin had been trained almost since birth to be a general. Of course, he also tended to forget that his brother-in-law was a King, and his wife a Princess, a rare gift in the settlement, and probably one of the reasons Dís had liked him in the beginning.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin was impressed with the place Víli had led him. The hunter had found a small cave, the opening only just wide enough that a Dwarf of Dwalin’s bulk could squeeze through. In front, there was a wide, perfectly flat plateau, and the mountain was sheer walls on either side of the cave. In short, it was defensible, and they’d be able to spend the night if the wolves did not find them. It wasn’t the first time the cave had been used by travellers either, evidenced by the small stack of dry kindling and firewood left behind in a far corner.

 

* * *

 

 

They stayed up long into the night, pretending that they weren’t waiting for their missing loved ones. When the candle had burned down to a small puddle of melted wax, Frís gave up her sewing and went to bed. Balin had retreated earlier, still reading some paper or other. Dís had not put Fíli in his crib, instead holding his tiny warm body close, finding comfort in his soft breathing. Neither sibling had uttered a word for hours. Thorin was staring broodily at the slowly dying fire, but making no move to put another log on. Dís sighed.

“We should get some sleep, nadad,” she whispered, knowing that she would have to be the one to send Thorin to bed. Otherwise he’d still be sitting there in the morning. “I’m sure they’ve just found somewhere to bed down for the night.” Thorin didn’t answer. With another sigh, Dís got up, squeezing his shoulder as she walked past him to the bedroom she and Víli shared. Putting the pebble in his crib and stroking his downy cheek with a soft smile, Dís left the door open as she returned to the living room, carrying the blanket off Thorin’s bed from his and Dwalin’s room. “At least you’ll be warm, if you willnae sleep,” she mumbled, pinching Thorin’s ear lightly as she spread the furs over his shoulders. Pressing a kiss to his dark locks, she turned to make for her own bed once more.

“Thank you, nunel,” Thorin whispered, but Dís did not hear him.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin always felt better with his axes in hand. Grasper and Keeper. The names they had been given after Azanulbizar, and for a moment Dwalin thought he saw Frerin’s ghostly face before him. Shaking his head, he set his attention firmly on keeping watch. They’d drawn straws, and Víli had won the right to a few hours of sleep. The wolves had been silent for a while, and the snow was still falling, the wind howling around the mountainside. Dwalin did not let the lack of signs make him incautious. His eyes kept scanning the quadrants he had assigned to the surroundings.

 

* * *

 

The attack was a swift as it was silent. Dwalin had no more warning than the yellow light of a pair of eyes before the first wolf – who was too big for a wolf, but not quite as big as a warg – attacked him. Keeper bit into its skull, and the wolf fell down dead. Dwalin’s shout managed to wake Víli – if he’d been asleep at all – who joined the fight with alacrity. Though less experienced than Dwalin, Víli was a quick Dwarf, and he made up for his slighter build and lack of brute strength with speed of movement. Another wolf fell, but Dwalin knew that the bloodlust had only just begun to surge in his opponents; these were no ordinary wolves, and the warg that came out of the darkness, black as night and as tall as Víli, proved it.

Dwalin’s world narrowed to the next swing of his weapon, the next slash, dodge, _move_. He killed swiftly and efficiently when he could, though one of the beasts managed to take a bite of his arm when he was too slow to dodge two at once. Víli’s sword skewered it in the next moment, but the bite was large, and Dwalin roared in pain, the agony only increasing his rage as he fought.

 

* * *

 

 

When morning came, Thorin was asleep in the chair by the hearth, the fur blanket half on the floor. Frís shook her head fondly, putting it back around his shoulders, smoothing the line that sleep had not removed from his brow. As she set to preparing breakfast, putting a kettle of water on the fire for tea, she found herself casting a glance out the window every now and again, looking for Dwalin’s rugged figure and Víli’s nimbler gait coming towards her.

 

Thorin woke when Frís screamed.

Dís was half-dressed as she hurtled out of her bedroom, and Balin was still in his nightshirt and fur-lined slippers.

“Amad?” Thorin asked groggily. “You are well?” Frís nodded silently, pointing out the window, one hand covering her mouth and her eyes wide in fright. Stepping up behind her, Dís gaped, before bursting into laughter.

“Well?” Thorin demanded, easily lifting her away from the window so he could see too. The sight made him suck in a quick gasp of the crisp morning air.

Towards them, a mountain of fur was moving, topped by a grinning warg’s head. The four legs beneath the pile made him abandon the thoughts whirling in his head and leap to throw the door open.

“We found some new friends,” Dwalin said blandly, dropping the three wolf pelts he had been carrying on his back with obvious relief. Beside him, Víli dropped another two and embraced Dís with a firm squeeze and a hearty kiss that made her giggle like a newlywed. Dwalin swayed slightly on his feet. Thorin cursed, seeing that his entire side was covered in blood. “S’just me arm, Thorin,” Dwalin slurred, pitching forward into Thorin’s strong arms. With Víli bracketing his other side, they got Dwalin manoeuvred into a chair.

“I’ll go fetch Óin,” Balin murmured, having returned to his bedroom to get properly dressed when he realised that Frís wasn’t being attacked in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

“Blood loss, yes,” Óin mumbled to himself, his young apprentice staring at the grisly wound with obvious awe. Dwalin snored. Thorin scowled. “It’s bled freely, at least, and no teeth stuck in him either,” for a moment, the healer looked slightly disappointed; he usually got to keep the things he removed from his patients. “I’ll clean it and stitch him up, but Dwalin’s a braw Dwarf, he’ll heal in no time.” Nodding to himself, Óin set to work, cleaning the wound with distilled alcohol. Dwalin roared, but Thorin had anticipated that he’d come up swinging and held his arms tight. Dís’s strong hand pressed the warrior back into the chair and Óin commenced with the sewing deftly.

“Brought fur for you,” Dwalin mumbled into Thorin’s hair. Óin’s stitching wasn’t terribly painful, but he had no need to watch the needle pierce his flesh. Thorin chuckled weakly.

“As long as you brought you back too,” he replied, scratching his fingers through Dwalin’s beard the way he liked. “You need a bath, amrâlimê.” Dwalin was – in a word – pungent.

“Already got water heating,” Frís promised from somewhere over Thorin’s shoulder, which made the warrior grin toothily at her.

“Someone keep an eye on him if you put him in a tub,” Óin advised, “he’s going to be a little loopy for a few hours at least.” Wrapping his neat handiwork in a clean bandage, Óin washed his hands calmly. “No using that arm till it’s healed properly, Cousin Dwalin,” he said sternly. Dwalin was not known for his patience when it came to waiting for an injury to heal before he could start working again, although he was surprisingly firm about not allowing injured Dwarrow to walk their rounds without their healer’s permission. “Feed him plenty of fluids, and keep the bite clean.” With final admonishments and a small pot of salve given, Óin left, accepting a fat rabbit as payment for his services.

 

* * *

 

Wrangling a sleepy Dwalin into the bath tub was a two-person job, but Víli had gone to take the pelts to the tannery, so Dís had to step in, helping Thorin, who ended up standing in the bath as Dwalin sat at his feet. Dís had laughed at the image they presented, but she had left with a fond peck on Dwalin’s cheek, abandoning Thorin to the task of washing off the sweat and gore that clung to his hair and skin. The tunic had been consigned to the pile of fabric they used for patching, the bloodied parts cut off. The rest of his clothes had been put into the big washing kettle, awaiting Víli’s return so his equally dirty clothing could get the same treatment. Dís had calmly set to skinning and cutting up the rabbits, while Frís was making dough for a piecrust.

 

“Am no dead, nor dyin,” Dwalin grumbled. “Dinnae fash yersel, Thorin.” Thorin just shook his head, moving the soapy rag slowly across Dwalin’s skin, surreptitiously checking that he really _was_ fine. Dwalin hadn’t been wrong, however; aside from the gruesome– flesh wasn’t meant to _dangle_ , in Thorin’s opinion, and certainly not _Dwalin’s flesh_ – bite on his arm, Dwalin had suffered only minor scrapes and a few bruises.

“You’ve the Fathers’s own luck, you do,” he mumbled, but received no more than a sleepy murmur in return. “Víli too.”

“Couldnae let the wee lad grow up without his Adad, could I?” Dwalin retorted, one eye opening to stare balefully at Thorin, who nodded. It was a point, and well-made, but he rather wished they hadn’t had to fight a pack of wargs at all. The vicious beasts were not _easy_ to kill, and Thorin felt guilty for having abandoned the hunting trip the day before. “Hey,” Dwalin said, softly, wrapping his large palm around Thorin’s temple braid and pulling him closer. “Nowt you coulda prevented, kurkaruk, an’ ye know it.” Thorin nodded, pressing a kiss against Dwalin’s shaved head.

“Let’s get you to bed, aye?” he murmured, reaching for the towel Dís had kindly laid out for them. Getting Dwalin out of the tub was almost as much hassle as getting him into it in the first place, but Thorin managed. Picking up the warrior – Dwalin was stronger, but Thorin was by no means a weakling himself – Thorin carried him into their bedroom, laying him down on the mattress.

“I made a spot of broth for you Dwalin. Drink it before you sleep,” Frís said, her voice laced with a Queen’s command when Dwalin looked mulishly at the mug she held. Thorin had to crack a smile. If it had been _him_ offering, Dwalin would have refused, just to be contrary, but Frís could get him to do anything with that combination of Amad-and-Queen she had. “C’mon, son, there you go,” she said, gently stroking his hair while he obediently drank the mug down.

Retrieving their fur blanket from where he had dropped it, Thorin draped the warm furs around Dwalin’s sleeping body. The bandage had a slight spot of red seeping through it, but he’d let Dwalin sleep a little more before changing it, Thorin decided. With a final kiss to Dwalin’s brow, he returned to the kitchen, his growling belly reminding him that he had skipped breakfast.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, Dwalin was running a fever, and the look of the wound – angry red and swollen, with thick yellow seepage – had Thorin sending once more for Óin.

 

* * *

 

What followed was a week of living in a nightmare. Thorin was grateful that Dís and Balin were capable of handling all his royal duties, sitting by Dwalin’s bedside as he listened to the whimpers and occasional cries Dwalin made, lost in fever-dreams.

Óin drained the wound, cutting open the healing flesh to let the infection out, the smell making everyone wonder how Óin could stand so close and not throw up. It was sickly sweet, like meat left rotting in the sun, but with the added bonus of this being _Dwalin_ , which made it a thousand times worse in Thorin’s mind. As the days passed, with little improvement, Óin began looking strained. Washing the wound with infusions of liquorice root and garlic didn’t improve the smell much, and Thorin wasn’t sure whether it helped or not, as it didn’t seem to do much for the fever Dwalin developed on day four.

Willowbark tea was brewed in bucketfuls, in an attempt to get the fever down, laced with meadowsweet to cut the bitterness slightly. Thorin felt helpless as he watched Dwalin – _his Dwalin_ – struggle with his own body.

Sometimes, Dwalin would lash out, shouting unintelligible curses into thin air, reminding Thorin of the first few months after Azanulbizar, when they _all_ found themselves returning to the field of battle in their dreams. Other times, he’d whimper and beg, which was almost worse, to Thorin’s mind, his heart breaking at the way the big warrior would sob for his amad, or Fundin, or other people whom Thorin did not remember ever having met, but who’d obviously been important to Dwalin. Thorin caressed Dwalin’s face gently, wiping the sweat off with a cool cloth.

“Geira was our adad’s amad,” Balin said quietly, bringing Thorin a cup of tea and a report they both knew he wouldn’t read. “She was just like Dwalin, big, brawny, ferocious,” he smiled, and Thorin was surprised to see muted envy on his face. “She died in Erebor. I don’t think you had time to meet her, she arrived for a visit only a few hours before Smaug,” he revealed. “I was- I was going to introduce her to Skaro, when she and Dwalin returned from the training grounds that evening.”

“I should have liked her,” Thorin said, picturing a female version of Dwalin with a slight smile. Balin chuckled, running his fingers across Dwalin’s burning forehead.

“Aye, I think she’d have liked you too, my King,” Balin said. “I’ll bring in your supper in a while. Dwalin’ll be foine, Thorin.” Not for the first time, Thorin wondered at the difference between the two brothers. It wasn’t often he heard traces of Sigrún’s Stiffbeard accent in Balin’s voice, usually too even to portray the heritage that made his knees weak when Dwalin’s deep voice growled in his ear, but when his advisor was emotional, it came out in small drips.

“He will get through this, Balin,” Thorin stated, trying to will his words to come true. He _would not_ let the love of his life die from a bloody warg-bite.

“Of course, he will,” Balin replied, a master at keeping his voice level. Thorin could hear the strain, however, hear the way Balin’s surety was little more than a thin cover for the well of despair that seemed to be drowning him too. Balin left quietly, a final squeeze to Thorin’s shoulder as he slipped out of the sickroom.

 

* * *

 

“You need to eat something, nadad,” Dís nagged, when she ventured inside with Thorin’s supper; a bowl of stew and a small loaf of bread. “Go have a wash, and then come back. I will sit with Dwalin.” Thorin wanted to protest; wanted to tell her to go away and leave him with his… he would not use the word dying – even in his own mind! – his beloved Dwalin. Dís gave him a look; one of the looks she had seemingly acquire overnight when she became a mother. Thorin did as commanded, stubbornly telling himself that he wouldn’t let her know how much better he felt for being cleaner.

 

* * *

 

“Ay, Dwalin, Dwalin, Dwalin,” Dís sighed, wringing out the wet rag Thorin had been wiping down the warrior’s body with; covering him once more when the heat of the fever became full-body chills and shivers. “You cannae do this to us, brother,” she whispered into his ear. “You can’t leave Thorin. He’ll be lost without you; even more than he’d be without me or amad.” Dwalin groaned. A sharp, acrid stench filled the room, making Dís gag. Flipping back the covers only increased the odour, coming from a very small stain of pee soaking into Dwalin’s nightshirt.

“Oh, Maker, what _is_ that!” Thorin exclaimed, covering his nose. Dís had already begun pulling the shirt off Dwalin – it was destined straight for the wash-kettle along with Fíli’s diapers – and did not answer.

“See if you can get a bit more tea in him, she ordered instead, bundling up the shirt hastily. “And wash him down, urine that smelly can’t be good for the skin…” hurrying out of the room with her burden, breathing large lungfuls of clean air, Dís abandoned Thorin to caring for the sick warrior.

“Thorin!” Dwalin cried suddenly.

“I’m here, amrâlimê, hush now,” Thorin replied helplessly, gripping one of Dwalin’s weakly flailing hands as he tried to wash him with the other.

“No!” Dwalin tossed, trying to get away from whatever he was seeing. “No!” he cried, beginning to weep. “Thorin! THORIN!”

“Please, Dwalin,” Thorin tried, climbing onto the bed to hold Dwalin, pressing his face against Thorin’s heartbeat like he did when the battle-dreams took him. “Hush, my love, hush now, everything is going to be alright,” he whispered, trying hard to believe it. Dwalin was tense against him, though his normally strong grip was weak as he clawed at Thorin’s chest, his eyes staring at something only he could see. The bandages on his arm would need changing soon, but Thorin did not wish to move from the clinging warrior’s side.

“How is he?” Frís asked quietly, coming to check on the both of them an hour later.

“I don’t know, amad, I think… I think he’s dying,” Thorin admitted, staring at Dwalin who was currently sleeping. Frís placed a cool hand on his brow, wiping tears off Thorin’s cheek with the other.

“We won’t let him, kundanud, we won’t let him.” She replied firmly, “You hear that, Dwalin, my boy? You’re not allowed to join Mahal’s Guard.” The words brought a watery chuckle from Thorin and a murmur of something indecipherable from Dwalin in response to his name, probably. Patting Thorin’s cheek, Frís got up from her seat on the edge of the bed and returned to the kitchen.

Pouring a measure of boiling water into the small kettle and adding Óin’s herbs, she put in a few yards of bandage material. Humming an old song, she stirred the mixture, waiting for the water to boil again. When she returned to the room Thorin and Dwalin usually shared, Thorin was whispering things into Dwalin’s ear his old mother pretended she didn’t hear, putting her hot kettle on the small stand by the bed. Removing the old bandages revealed slightly less seepage than the last time she’d done it, which was a sign that Óin’s newest medicine seemed to be working, even if the fever had not yet broken. The wound itself still looked angry, though perhaps less red than that morning, she thought, humming thoughtfully as she set to work, flushing the wound with the infused water which made Dwalin roar in pain. There was nothing for it, however, even if it tore at her heart to inflict pain on the dwarf she considered her third son. Swiftly packing the wound with another wad of soaked bandage material, she wrapped a long length of undyed linen around Dwalin’s arm to hold it in place, hoping that the strong heat might help his body fight off whatever the warg’s bite had given him.

“Could you drink something for me, love?” Thorin asked, sounding as hoarse as Dwalin; his voice roughened by tears he did not cry. Frís silently handed him another cup of willow-bark tea. Óin called it fever reducing as well as pain-killing, but so far it had not done much except make Dwalin grimace at the bitter taste. Pressing a kiss against Thorin’s forehead, then one to Dwalin’s for good measure, Frís whispered a quiet goodnight at her son before she left to find her own bed, praying to the Lifegiver for mercy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Dwalin’s fever finally broke, leaving him groggy and weak as a kitten.

“Thorin?” he slurred, waking up the dozing blacksmith.

“Dwalin?” Thorin hardly dared breathe. “Can you hear me?”

“Thorin,” Dwalin’s smile was a little off, but there was recognition in his eyes. “Crying?” he murmured, trying to lift a hand to wipe away Thorin’s tears.

Leaning in infinitely carefully, Thorin pressed his lips against Dwalin’s, putting his head down on the warrior’s broad chest and enjoying the peaceful sound of Dwalin’s heat-beat mixing with his snores. He smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin was a grumpy patient at the best of times, Thorin knew, and this was _not_ a good time. Staying in bed with a fever was one thing, but feeling weak and powerless for weeks because of it was another. For the first few days, Dwalin had enjoyed making them wait on him, but soon the indignity of needing help with pretty much everything began to grate, leaving him snappish and short-tempered. Thorin didn’t care when Dwalin yelled at him – it wasn’t the first time one of them had taken their frustrations out on the other through bellowing – but he drew the line when Dwalin threw his empty bowl of porridge against the wall and smashed it.

“Dwalin!” he yelled, his voice as dark as his temper. Dwalin looked sullen and pouty as he glared at Thorin. Then he looked sheepish, flopping back into his pillows.

“I’m being a pain, aren’t I?” he groaned. Thorin chuckled.

“Maybe a little?” he teased. Dwalin groaned again. “I should check on your arm,” Thorin mumbled, when he’d finished sweeping up shards of pottery. He sent a wry thought to Dís, who’d cleverly given Dwalin one of the wonky bowls she had once made during her two-day delusion of being a master potter in the making. Frís would have been annoyed at losing one of the fine china bowls Lady Rádveig had sent her for her Nameday, Thorin knew.

“Bloody arm,” Dwalin grumbled, but he held out the limb for inspection anyway. The bit was healing – albeit slowly – though it would end up leaving a fairly wide scar, crescent shaped and uneven around the edges, Thorin thought, tracing along the edge of the scab.

“How’s it feel?” he asked, though he knew that the infection was completely gone; the wound no longer felt hot to the touch, nor did light pressure make Dwalin roar like a wounded bear.

“Like a warg took a bite out of my arm,” Dwalin replied darkly. “I hate being stuck here.” Thorin cocked his head, leaning in for the kiss that had seemed unlikely to be returned when he arrived to find angry Dwalin glaring at his runny porridge. Óin had given strict instructions about permissible foods – after a week of little solid foods, he wanted to get Dwalin back to his normal diet slowly. Dwalin did not approve of that plan. He did, however, kiss Thorin back, which Thorin counted as a good thing for the day.

“Lucky for you you’re allowed up in a few days then… and for Dís’ crockery,” Thorin winked, darting in for another kiss. Dwalin laughed.

“You know she expected me to smash that ugly thing,” he pointed out, “it’s why she gave me the wonkiest of the lot.” Thorin chuckled, knowing Dwalin was probably right. Shaking his head, he kissed Dwalin’s forehead.

“Want to eat with the rest of us tonight?” he asked, nearly having to force Dwalin back in bed when the warrior tried to get up immediately. Dwalin scowled. “On the condition that I carry you to the table _and_ you go back to bed when you feel tired.”

“Fine!” Dwalin grumbled, but accepted being picked up with bad grace.

 

After the meal, Thorin lifted Dwalin back into his arms, unsurprised when the warrior slumped onto his shoulder.

“Your hair is so soft…” Dwalin muttered tiredly. He was asleep before he hit the pillow. Thorin chuckled, setting about getting ready for bed and then climbing in to wrap himself around Dwalin’s slightly diminished bulk.

 _You need to eat a bit more,_ was his last thought before he fell asleep, one arm curled around Dwalin’s middle.

 

The bite was taking a very long time to heal, meaning Dwalin had been stuck with light duties and desk work – something he hated – and lacking the outlet of proper sparring for weeks. Of course, he insisted on training – even if he could only manage five minutes before he started wheezing, which meant Thorin insisted on stopping – but using one arm and a sword was a lot less fun than pummelling unsuspecting recruits with his twin axes. Thorin had had to resort to the drastic measures of taking Grasper and Keeper with him when he went to work in the forge, leaving Dwalin to scowl over being babied.

When the scabs finally began to peel, revealing shiny pink skin underneath, however, Dwalin was careful about stretching the scar properly. The warrior knew – had learned at his Sigin’Amad’s knee, perhaps – that scars needed careful tending in the first couple of years, to avoid making a weakness permanent. Lucky for Dwalin, the bite had only severed muscle, which had grown back together fairly quickly, and had hit a spot in the middle of his upper arm, which meant no loss of mobility from a scar across a joint. Óin had provided a small pot of his scar softener, which Dwalin used religiously, stretching the new scar with exercises every night. Thorin usually claimed the duty of rubbing in the ointment, simply because it was an excuse to touch Dwalin – not that he ever needed an excuse – which often led to more intimate touches being offered.

“You know, I know why you’re doing this,” Dwalin smirked, watching Thorin focus intently on covering the crescent scar evenly with a thin layer of salve and rubbing it in. Thorin hummed a question. Dwalin’s free hand pinched his arse. “There’s no medical reason for sitting on my lap doing it, you know,” Dwalin continued loftily, leaning in to nibble at Thorin’s ear. A light moan replaced whatever answer Thorin might have thought up. Dwalin smirked, systematically setting to the task of distracting Thorin from his small job.

“There’s – Ohh – every reason,” Thorin panted lightly, one of his hand drifting over to pinch Dwalin’s nipple, plucking at the steel-bar that pierced it. The warrior hummed.

“Oh, really, now,” he drawled, squeezing Thorin’s arse again. “I think that’s a flimsy excuse, my love, and well you know it.”

“Do I need an excuse?” Thorin asked cheekily, leaning in for a kiss and making Dwalin hiss when he moved his hips.

“Maker!” Dwalin groaned. “Only if you stop doing that.” Thorin smirked. “It’s been far too long, Thorin,” Dwalin murmured into his hair, shaking Thorin’s hand off his arm to bury his fingers in the long sable locks, perfect handhold for making sure Thorin got properly kissed as a reward for his efforts.

“I suppose you expect me to take pity on a poor invalid?” Thorin half-teased. Dwalin growled.

“No. Use me however you like, amrâlimê,” he purred. Thorin smiled, pushing Dwalin back onto the bed.

“We’ll have a new blanket in a few days,” Thorin revealed between kisses. “One of Víli’s friends took the furs from the wargs you killed.”

“Pity,” Dwalin quipped, “I’d have liked to wear it in revenge for all the trouble it gave me.”

“Ah, you will.” Thorin revealed with a laugh. “There was enough fur for a new blanket for us, a cape for Dís and trimming for both our cloaks as well.”

“Well then,” Dwalin said thoughtfully, pulling Thorin back to his mouth, “would you like to celebrate with me?” he asked, thrusting the evidence of his desire up to brush against Thorin’s answering hardness.

Thorin laughed, banishing the last spectre of Dwalin’s illness from their bed.

 


End file.
